


depth charge

by synecdochic



Series: the eurydiceverse [6]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Community: slashfic25, Episode: s09e16 Off The Grid, Everyone Has Issues, Fucked Up, Imported, M/M, Service Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-23
Updated: 2006-07-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 18:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6340690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synecdochic/pseuds/synecdochic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cam fucks up a lot, but his biggest fuckup is thinking that Daniel's just this guy, you know?</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Sometimes talking to Jackson is like trying to hug a cactus. Only less cuddly.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	depth charge

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally [posted](http://www.kekkai.org/synecdochic/sg1/depth_charge.html) 2006-07-23.)
> 
> Remember I said Daniel was thinking about naming his issues 'Fred'? Well, it was time Cam got an introduction; after all, Fred's the fifth member of his team.
> 
> slashfic25 prompt #7: _below_.

Cam's split lip is aching like a motherfucker, partially due to Worrell's flunkies, and partially because he can't stop grinning. It's been a _good_ day. Sure, the whole prisoner thing sucked, and there'd been a few nasty minutes on Ba'al's ship when he thought they weren't going to make it, but then they _did_ , and they'd gotten what they went there for. Mostly. Okay, he hadn't gotten any _kassa_ , or any information on who was behind the whole thing, really, but they'd gotten the _Odyssey_ through her shakedown cruise, been present for Ba'al eating space dust, and overall kicked ass and taken names and life is _good_.

He's too charged up to settle, so after Dr. Lam patches him up and turns him loose, he checks out a .45 from the armory and heads on up to the firing range to get some practice time. At one in the morning, he's expecting to find the lights turned low, but when he pulls the door open there's a figure in BDUs and safety gear at the last station, the 50-yard qualifier lane. It's Jackson. He's not hot, just fussing with a box of ammo, so Cam saunters over and props his hip up against the lane divider.

"Didn't expect to find you here," he says, loud enough to be heard over the ear protectors.

"I'm certainly not sure why not, seeing as how you had no doubts about my shooting ability when calling on me to cover _your_ kamikaze ass," Jackson says. 

Ouch; that one's gonna leave a mark. Cam takes a closer look and realizes Jackson's furious: his lips are pressed together, shoulders taut. "I didn't mean," he says, and then tips his head back and looks at the ceiling. "Okay. How 'bout I just head on out, come back in, and we can try that conversational gambit again?"

"I'd really rather not," Jackson says. "If you'll excuse me?"

Cam reaches over and puts a hand on Jackson's wrist as he's about to pick up his weapon. Jackson doesn't try to pull away, just turns his head and gives Cam a look like he's something the cat dragged in and pissed on. "Look," Cam says, "I know why you're annoyed at me."

"Really. That's funny, because I'm not annoyed at you. Fucking livid, perhaps, but not annoyed." It's always shocked Cam when Jackson drops language like that; he's not sure why, but every time he hears Jackson swearing like a Marine it makes him stop and blink. 

"Yeah, about that." Cam lets his grip on Jackson's wrist fall loose. "I, uh. I really am sorry about dragging you guys into trouble with me."

Jackson closes his eyes for a second -- Cam gets the mental image of him counting to ten, or maybe to fifty, in any one of a double dozen languages -- and opens them again. "We're not going to have the conversation where you apologize for doing something stupid and I say it's all right, just don't do it again, and then you slap me on the back and say things you got out of your Leadership for Dummies book, are we? Because really, I could just play back my recording of the last one. It'd save us all so much time."

Cam's stunned for a second, and he can tell he's gaping like a fish. "Okay," he finally says, forcing himself to close his mouth. He tries for cheerful, but he's pretty sure he only manages to hit 'deranged'. "I'll just leave you alone and let you shoot things in peace, then."

Jackson's voice stops him when he's halfway to the door. "Wait," Jackson says, sounding more annoyed at himself than at Cam. When Cam turns around, Jackson's pulling off his BCGs and rubbing at his face. 

Cam holds out his hands. "What, you wanna bitch at me some more?"

"No, look, I'm sorry. I'm having a bitch of a week and I'm taking it out on you, and I shouldn't." Jackson offers up a little smile. "If it makes you feel any better, I told Sam to fuck off and take her Midol an hour ago."

Cam winces, because he's known Sam Carter for a long time, and he'd rather swallow a live snake than piss her off. "And she let you live?"

Jackson purses his lips, remembering. "Well, she gave me that look and told me the next time I said something like that in front of anybody else on base, she was going to make personally sure I was up-to-date on my unarmed combat rating."

"You don't _hold_ unarmed combat rating," Cam points out.

"Yeah, exactly." 

Jackson goes back to stacking his ammo. Cam watches for a minute, trying to figure out the method to his madness, and then gives up and leans back against the wall. "You wanna talk about the reason for the shitty week?" he offers.

Jackson waves a hand. "Shot at, taken prisoner, beaten up, shot at again, you know the drill."

"Woulda thought you were used to that by now."

Jackson glances back over at him. His eyes, Cam notices for the thousandth time, really are ridiculously blue. "The day I can walk off from having killed God only knows how many people and be perfectly fine is the day I walk off this job forever."

Well, _shit_. It's so easy for Cam to forget Jackson's a civilian; hell, the guy's almost a better soldier than he is. He tries to dredge up the memory of his first CO and the aftermath talk, because he knows that if he's left to his own devices he'll screw this one up bigtime. "Yeah, it's tough," he says. "But when it's you or them --"

"I'd rather it be me who walks away, and they made the choice to open hostility instead of attempting to find a peaceful solution, and I'm not responsible for other people's choices and if I let it get to me I'll tear myself up inside, yes, I know." Jackson sets a box of ammo down with a little more force than absolutely necessary. "I've _given_ that speech; I don't need to hear it from you."

Sometimes talking to Jackson is like trying to hug a cactus. Only less cuddly. "I'm only trying to --"

Jackson breathes in, through his nose, his eyes closed. "I have been doing this," he says, each word neat and clipped, "for a very long time. I am perfectly capable of judging my own emotional needs."

And maybe Cam just doesn't know when to quit -- no, strike that, he knows he doesn't know when to quit -- because what comes out of his mouth is not an apology and not a graceful retreat, but: "Pretty sure that's a load of shit."

Yeah, should have taken the "walk away" option, he thinks, as Jackson slams him up against the dividing wall with a hand around his throat. "You really don't know when to let it go, do you?" he says, pressed up against Cam, broad and bright and pissed. "Do you have no self-preservation instinct at all?"

"Didn't --" It comes out as a squeak. Cam clears his throat, tries again. "Didn't know I needed one."

Lie. He's seen that tight-lipped expression on Jackson's face before, heard the stories in the hallways. He knows Jackson's got a temper, and he knows Jackson keeps it locked up tighter than a virgin on prom night. He's been thinking of applying this particular crowbar for a few weeks, ever since he realized the look on Jackson's face when he thinks nobody's watching reminds him of his old squadron buddy, who'd woken up one morning in the desert and hiked four miles to the village next to base, where he'd been found calmly eviscerating a fourteen-year-old boy.

Not that he thinks Jackson would ever do that. No, when Jackson finally snaps, it's going to be a lot more subtle. Probably a hell of a lot more dangerous. 

Jackson's warm like fever and he smells like whatever fruity body lotion he's stealing from Sam in the showers this week. Cam tries to ignore the tug in his groin, low and grinding and insistent. Jackson can feel it too, he knows; as he watches, trying not to break eye contact, Jackson's eyes flicker a little and his tongue darts out to skim over his lips.

Cam licks his lips, too, and he'd forgotten about the split one, which had stopped stinging until he noticed it again. "Security cameras," he says, trying for nonchalant. Probably only hitting 'nervous rabbit'. 

"Yeah, you know, it's funny," Jackson says, in a tone that says it's anything but. He doesn't let go of Cam's throat, but Cam notes with the one section of his brain that isn't trying to figure out how to maneuver this that he's not digging in his fingertips, not using enough weight for it to be painful. It's almost not even uncomfortable, just a whisper of warning that things could get ugly. "They always seem to malfunction when I'm down here late at night." 

Fuck shit death. Cam's torn between wondering where Jackson's gonna dump his body and how, exactly, he pulls that off -- bargain with Sam? bribing the technicians? hell, alien gizmo from the Asgard? And why -- does he just hate being watched when he's got a weapon in his hands?

"Would you like to tell me," Jackson says, absurdly polite, "why you're trying so hard to get me to punch you in the face?"

Cam goes for a smile. It doesn't work, though, and he drops the attempt quickly. "Don't suppose you'd buy 'masochist tendencies', would you?" he says, trying to lighten the mood a bit. 

"Actually," Jackson says, tilting his head to the side and studying Cam like he's some Ancient tablet, "I probably would, but that's not the point."

Oh, God, that had almost been _interest_ in there, somewhere, and Cam tells his body to shut up again, because he's not _stupid_ and he doesn't know if Jackson knows it was a joke. "You're wound tighter'n one of Sam's coil gadgets," he says, dropping the village idiot act and going for blunt honesty. Jackson blinks at him like he's speaking Greek. Except Jackson probably speaks Greek. "Have been for weeks. Months. And if you don't find some way to let off some of that steam, you're going to explode, and none of us are even going to get the chance to duck."

"So let me get this straight. You came up here with the intention of provoking me into losing my temper at you because you thought I needed an outlet?" The anger's gone by now, Cam notices; it's been replaced with an almost academic curiosity. Jackson's hand across his throat is no more than a warm presence now, something he could break in a minute if he wanted to. 

"I came up here," Cam says, his own temper flaring, "to shoot some things and blow off some of my own steam so I could go home and go to bed."

"Huh." Jackson seems to consider that, and whatever he's thinking -- and God, what Cam wouldn't give for one of those memory things, to get into Jackson's head a little, just to get some kind of tiny fucking _clue_ \-- seems to satisfy him. He lets his hand fall and takes a step back. 

Doesn't apologize, Cam notices. He takes a deep breath. Lets it out, slowly. Thinking about the crowbar isn't the same as actually being in a position to start looking for cracks to pry at. 

No guts, no glory, Shaft. 

God, he really is fucking insane.

"Don't back off," he says. Jackson freezes, and Cam's got just enough time to think _fucking shit, called it wrong, goddamn flaming hell_. Then Jackson's taking that step forward, bringing him right back into Cam's personal space. Not touching. Just _there_ , breathing the same air, watching Cam like a snake getting ready to strike.

"Why?" Jackson asks. 

"Told you," Cam says. He's not trying to sound seductive, but he can hear the rasp in his voice, and it leaves him irrationally pissed, because who the hell knows how Jackson's going to interpret it. "You're one more bad mission from blowing unless you find some way of dealing with it."

For a minute Cam thinks Jackson might reach out and actually _touch_ \-- he's leaning into it already, imagining those hands on his chest, his hips, his cock -- and he can practically smell Jackson's hard-on, even if he doesn't want to drop his eyes and confirm it. And then Jackson steps back again, shaking his head, slamming the armor back into place.

"You've heard the rumors about me and Jack, haven't you," Jackson says. Tight, taut. "And you think I'm some kind of easy target --"

"I don't listen to gossip," Cam says, keeping his voice calm. Another lie: he's heard every single one of the stories, every bit of rampant speculation, but he doesn't know if they're true and he doesn't give a flying fuck either way. All he cares about is what Jackson's body is telling him. "Look, if I'm wrong, I'm sorry, and you can take that swing at me if you want. If I'm right --"

"You'll what?" 

Actions speak louder than words. Cam locks his eyes on Jackson's and sinks, slowly, to his knees.

Nothing fancy. He's not into that scene and even if Jackson is, there's no way he'd be ready. He's not kneeling to Jackson, not kneeling _for_ Jackson, and they both know it; all he's doing is putting the offering on the table. Jackson's one of his squad, now, and Cam does what it takes to bring his boys back home.

Jackson's breath catches. "Oh, God, get up, anyone could walk in here," he says, words tumbling over each other in their haste to claw free. 

His hand is hovering, though, like it wants to bury itself in Cam's hair, like it wants to make decisions without consulting any of the other body parts it's connected to. Cam can feel the sensory ghost of those elegant fingers thumbing open his mouth, curling around his jaw. It makes his mouth water, his throat dry. "That your only reason for telling me to get up?" he manages.

Jackson closes his eyes. His muscles ripple, once, starting at the top of his spine and shivering all the way down. "Yes, damn you," he hisses, and relief brings a sudden euphoria spreading through Cam's chest tempered only by the desperate look on Jackson's face when he opens his eyes again.

Cam can think fast when he has to. Not his apartment; the drive would take too long, even if he thinks Jackson's going to be the kind of guy who likes to beat a hasty retreat when he's done. Their offices are on video; it would be suicide. Locker room's just as public. It's going to have to be Jackson's quarters, and he'll just take it with good grace when Jackson kicks him out afterwards while his knees are still shaking.

"You gonna change your mind if we take the time to walk back to your quarters?" he asks, faking a quiet confidence he doesn't feel in the least. Jackson doesn't say anything, just leaves his sidearm and his ammo on the counter and strides past Cam without looking back.

Take that as a no, then. 

Cam doesn't remember much of the walk back to Jackson's; thank God the corridors are mostly deserted at this time of the night, because he's so hard he thinks people in fucking Manhattan can see the way his BDUs are tenting and he doesn't particularly feel like trying to explain himself later. He hasn't been here long enough to get the sense of who's cool and who isn't, and he has no idea whether or not Landry's down with the down low. Jackson's body language is brilliant: he's doing a remarkable impression of "fucking pissed" still, radiating irritation and impatience to any observer, not lust. Cam wonders if it's even an act at all. 

The sound of the door locking behind them is louder in Cam's head than it is in the room. It's barely even a 'snick'.

It's like it saps all Jackson's energy, though, and he looks almost lost as he stands in the center of the room, like he can't remember or can't decide what comes next. Cam takes one look at him and throws most of his half-formed ideas out the window. He crosses the room, before Jackson can change his mind, before Jackson can say anything, and settles back down on his knees again. 

Jackson's hands fall on his shoulders just as he's reaching for Jackson's belt to get this started quick and fast. "Wait," Jackson says, one single rough syllable.

Cam stops. He doesn't look up; he doesn't want to know. "Waiting," he says, and oh, God, if Jackson says stop, he's going to have to kill something.

"This isn't -- I don't want you to -- I mean, I can't promise --" Jackson's thumbs are stroking over Cam's collarbone, light syncopation. It's doing strange things like making Cam want to roll over and show his belly.

Instead, he puts his mouth over the fly of Jackson's pants, breathing against him, warm and soft, and Jackson shivers again. "Yeah, me either," Cam says, and apparently it's the right thing to say, because Jackson makes a noise in the back of his throat and toes off his shoes.

Oh, God, Cam's missed this. Missed the smell, iron and sweat and heat, teasing him from behind Jackson's clothes. Missed the way that little muscle in the groin flutters when he turns his face and rubs his cheek against it. For a second he considers undoing Jackson's belt and fly with teeth and lips, drawing it out -- okay, yeah, he'll cop to it, showing off -- but Jackson's hands are shaking against his skin and he's got no idea what-the-fuck is going on up there, so probably better to get the party started.

His own hands are less steady than he'd like as he unbuckles, unzips. Tugs pants and boxers down just enough so the waistband stretches across Jackson's thighs. Jackson's uncut, which Cam knew from the locker room, and when he's hard like this, he's not too long but thick enough that he'll leave Cam's jaw feeling pleasantly weary afterwards. Cam strokes two fingers from root to tip, feathering them over that softest of shifting skin. Jackson says something indistinct and his fingertips dig into the tops of Cam's shoulders, hard enough to ache if it didn't feel so good against the tight muscles, like an unconscious massage.

He wraps his hand around the base of Jackson's cock -- loosely at first, tighter when Jackson's hips jerk forward to search for more -- and flattens his tongue out to drag it over the head. It earns him another hiss, and one of Jackson's hands -- God, those hands -- flutters up to clutch at the base of his skull. 

Yeah, Cam's missed this. The minute when you open your mouth and arch your tongue, wrap your lips over your teeth, breathe through your nose and drop your jaw, taking it in fast enough to be on the verge of choking because you don't want to wait long enough to get used to it again. If he were ready to be honest with himself he'd admit this wasn't just for Jackson's benefit. He unwinds his fingers from the base of Jackson's cock as his mouth makes its way down and drops his hand into his lap, just pressing the base of his palm against his pubic bone, a promise for later.

The hand that's still on his shoulder is gripping so tightly Cam thinks he might have bruises tomorrow. It's okay, he can pass them off as relics of the mission, but it means Jackson's still trying to control himself too tightly, and that's against pretty much all of the plans Cam's got. He closes his eyes and pries Jackson's hand loose, and Jackson's cock jumps on his tongue as he moves that hand to the side of his face, splays his fingers out over top in silent encouragement. 

It's hard for Cam to keep his attention on so many things at once -- cock in mouth, hand in lap, other hand against Jackson's, pubes tickling his nose and trying to remember how to breathe -- but he can read Jackson's hesitation just fine in the choked "Mitchell --" that just barely meets his ears. He doesn't want to stop what he's doing long enough to have a fucking conversation about this, and he _really_ doesn't want to have another battle of wits, because he hasn't ever won a single one with this guy, so he hollows out his cheeks and swallows from the back of his throat. It's a point of personal satisfaction when Jackson's knees wobble, just a little, and Cam moves his other hand out of his lap and spreads it across Jackson's ass to urge him deeper.

He can't read Jackson's body language worth a damn, but there isn't much interpretation needed when a man cups your face and starts fucking your mouth. It catches Cam off-guard; the rhythm Jackson sets is too fast, too rough, for him to do anything but breathe to keep from choking and try to keep his teeth out of the way. His split lip is burning, and he thinks it might have cracked again, but he doesn't care. Jackson's thumbs brush the corners of his mouth, tender contrast to the short, abrupt slide of his hips. Cam's so turned on he thinks he could probably come from the hands on his face alone.

If he'd thought about it, he probably would have expected a litany of six different languages at once, filthy and breathy and perverse, but when Jackson's hands finally tighten and his hips jerk forward to bury himself in Cam's mouth, spilling down Cam's throat without even a warning, the only sound Jackson makes is a soft, unguarded hiss. 

Cam pulls back the minute he can, not because he wants to, but because his eyes are watering and his throat is full, spit and phlegm and come all mingling together to make him want to gag. He coughs, once, twice, trying to re-fill his lungs, then swallows against the burning. 

He hasn't felt this alive in months.

At some point in the middle of things, his hand must have slipped back down into his lap without bothering to let him know of its destination, because he's cupping himself through his pants, squeezing, the kind of touch that isn't designed to bring him off but to keep himself from making a mess in his underwear. Jackson recovers more quickly than Cam's ever been able to. Cam wonders if he should be offended, or maybe disappointed, that Jackson has enough control even thirty seconds later to open his eyes and tug up his pants just fine without needing to lean on something.

Then Jackson's eyes flick over him, coming to rest briefly in his lap before moving back up to his face, and really, a dictionary of looks would be too fucking useful right about now, because Cam can't read Jackson's face worth shit except to know that this didn't do a damn thing to relax him. 

"Do you fuck?" Jackson asks, abruptly, like he's asking if Cam prefers tea or coffee.

Cam can't stop himself from wincing, because he really doesn't get off on being penetrated; he's been known to go for it when necessary, but it's just not his thing. His brain catches up with him a second later and informs him there's no way in hell Jackson's getting it up again so quickly. And he doesn't think Jackson's talking about a hypothetical future. "I could," he says, and takes his hand away from his dick.

Jackson nods. He strips off his clothing, efficiently, quickly, and reaches into the bedside table, pulling out lube, condoms. Cam's still disoriented, like he's the one who just came hard enough to blow off the top of his head and not Jackson. Jackson tosses the lube down on the bed and holds up the condom, raising an eyebrow.

"Probably a good idea," Cam admits, expecting some snide comment, but Jackson only nods and flicks the package at Cam, two-fingered, like it's a ninja's throwing star. Cam fumbles it mid-air, drops it on the floor, and by the time he picks it up and struggles to his feet, Jackson's face-down on the bed with a pillow under his hips, arms folded, cheek resting on them, head tilted to watch Cam like a stranger.

He knows that expression, Cam realizes. It's Jackson's "studying the natives" look.

He tries to match Jackson's matter-of-factness as he strips down, but his hands are too unsteady. It's been a long fucking time since he's done this, and he wonders how long it's been for Jackson. Wonders who's been here before him, maybe even in this very bed, that he's gonna get compared to. He stands next to the bed, looking down at all that skin spread out, waiting for him. Jackson's bigger without his clothes, somehow, when he doesn't have fabric to hide behind. 

This has gone way beyond casual stress relief, but somehow it still has the same feel of giving a buddy a hand. He tests the theory by running a hand up the back of Jackson's thigh, up to the curve of his ass, and Jackson's legs part and his hips surge up like he's almost starting to get comfortable. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Cam doesn't know what made him think that handling Jackson would be any less explosive than handling a whole backpack full of C4. 

"How do you want it?" he asks, because he fucking knows he can't read this and he's half a step away from making things worse. 

Jackson's eyes drift shut. "Slow at first," he says, like he's ordering off a menu. "It's been a while. Then hard and rough." He opens one eye again, and the look on his face is half distance and half dare. "As rough as you can get it."

_Yeah, perfectly capable of handling his own emotional needs, my ass._ Cam climbs onto the bed, straddles the back of Jackson's thighs, fits his hands against the curve of Jackson's ass, slides them up to dig thumbs into the knots of muscle in the small of his back. Jackson tolerates the touch, but Cam can tell tolerance is the best he's going to get, and he isn't doing this for his own health. He slides back, getting a knee between Jackson's legs, and rubs the underside of his dick over the curve where ass shades into thigh. That gets a reaction; Jackson pushes back against him, hips only, his upper body motionless and quiet.

Cam doesn't need a memo. Or an engraved invitation. He leans over Jackson's body to fumble one-handed for the bottle of lube. One bit of his mind notes how still Jackson gets, trembling beneath Cam's weight, not struggling at all. Cam files it away as another piece of data to consider, because he's got the feeling he's gotten the last set of instructions Jackson's gonna give.

He pauses as he's slicking up his fingers, suddenly and sharply aware that an hour ago, his plans for the night included shooting, shower, beer, and bed. The fact it took so long for the unreality of this situation to hit him is probably a sign. Of something. 

He runs his dry hand along Jackson's ass, getting a good handful, and Jackson pulls his knee up to the side and tips up, giving Cam an easy approach. Cam's ready for it, but he knows this isn't about him, never was. He watches Jackson's face as he slides the first finger in past the resistance, up to the second knuckle, but the only feedback he gets is the way Jackson's brows draw together, deepening the perpetual crease in his forehead. It's like trying to bring in a bird in the dead of night with only one engine left, when the instruments are gone and the runway can't risk shining more than three lights without being made by the enemy. "Talk to me," he says, rougher than he intended. "Good?"

"More lube." Jackson's voice is so calm, so quiet, that Cam has to strain to hear it.

Cam pulls out and reaches for the bottle again. Jackson looks relaxed enough, until you notice the way he's holding onto his own biceps, knuckles white enough to stand out. Cam rises up on his knees, puts his other palm flat-out between Jackson's shoulderblades, bears his weight down just a little. Must be the right thing to do, because Jackson breathes out like a sigh, and this time when Cam slides his finger back in, Jackson's face smoothes out and his whole body trembles, once, before falling still.

In the past, when he's done this, it's been about a quick way to get off. Get the other guy off. He doesn't do it often -- it's hard to find a convenient spot, on base or in the field, and he's way more used to hand jobs or blow jobs or just jacking off in the bunk, trying to be quiet but not being fanatical about it. He's pretty sure Jackson isn't doing this to get off, though, and there's no way Jackson cares enough to be doing this so Cam can. He's got no fucking _idea_ what's going on, but Jackson's practically given him orders, so he waits a minute and then starts a slow, even glide.

After a couple of uncomfortable minutes that make him wonder if Jackson's even feeling this at all, Jackson's hips finally start moving, rocking to the rhythm Cam's keeping himself to, and his breathing starts to get rougher. Cam takes his hand off Jackson's back long enough to reach for the lube again, and Jackson's shoulderblades arch up where Cam was holding them down, like he's trying to chase after Cam's hand. Cam's paying enough attention -- hell, this is the most concentration he's put to anything in longer than he can remember -- that he leans his hand back down even before he adds a second finger. 

Jackson's still giving him orders, he realizes. Just not out loud. Fuck, he has no idea how he could have even thought he'd have any kind of control in this situation at all.

It's okay, though. He's good at following orders, when he needs to be. 

Jackson's breathing is ragged by now, and Cam flicks eyes back up to his face. It almost stops him in his tracks. He's seen _want_ and _need_ from Jackson before, or thought he had, but this is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug: naked, raw, unfettered. It's like Jackson's gone somewhere so far inside his own head that he didn't remember to close off his expression before he went. God, Cam wants to crack that armor open and rummage through Jackson's skull, because he's either the sanest crazy person or the craziest sane person Cam's ever met.

"Talk to me," Cam says, more of a plea this time, and Jackson's eyes open, dark and distant.

" _Hel'la_ ," Jackson says, and then seems to surface a little, because just as Cam's going to say something he switches back to English. "Now." 

Cam's hands are shaking as he fumbles the condom on, goes for more lube yet again. He puts one hand over Jackson's tailbone, uses the other one to guide his dick as he pushes slowly in. He always forgets how tight this is, how good it feels. He's not expecting Jackson to push back so sharply, not expecting it when Jackson rears up on his knees and takes Cam's whole damn length down to the balls in a single stroke.

"Fuck," Cam says, frozen with surprise, and Jackson snarls and grinds forward, backward, fucking himself on Cam's dick the same way he fucked Cam's mouth. Cam tries to catch the rhythm, but there's something off about it, and his dick slips free. "Sorry, sorry," he rasps, but Jackson's not listening, just holding himself still and quivering until Cam manages to get himself lined up again. This time he curls a hand around Jackson's hip, pulling him close, keeping him from squirming free again. 

He fucks deep and sharp, since that's what Jackson seems to want, and between the length of time he's been turned on and the flutter and squeeze of the muscles surrounding him, he knows he's not going to last long enough at all. He brings his hand around for Jackson's cock, because he's got _manners_ , dammit, but Jackson's fingers catch his before he can get more than halfway there, moving the hand back to his hip and holding. 

Dammit, Cam doesn't want to say anything, doesn't want to even suggest he might be anything less than perfect at this, but he doesn't want Jackson to be surprised. He can't bring himself to stop, though, so it comes out in ragged rhythm: "not -- gonna -- last --"

Jackson does something with his hips and knees to change the angle, and it shuts Cam up quickly, because he doesn't have enough breath left to keep talking. "I know," he says, and Cam can't tell if it's sad or smug, because he's too busy trying not to roar loud enough to have the SFs come running as he explodes.

He pulls out as soon as he can think again, ties off the condom and heads for the bathroom to toss it and wash up, because he's pretty sure Jackson's going to armor up again the minute he can and Cam doesn't really want to watch the process. 

Sure enough, when he comes back out with a wet washcloth, Jackson's dressed again -- well, in sweatpants and a wifebeater, at least -- and sitting on the edge of the bed. Cam's ready to see disappointment in his face, or disgust, or, perhaps worst, that cool prickly distance, but he's shocked to realize Jackson's the most relaxed Cam's ever seen him. 

"Come here," Jackson says, and Cam crosses the room, naked and vulnerable, and kneels between Jackson's knees. No clue why; it just seems like the right thing to do. He turns his face, rests his cheek against the softness of the sweats right over Jackson's thigh, and breathes out, long and slow. He's not at all surprised to realize that the itchy jittery feeling he's been living with all day has slipped silently away.

Jackson's hand strokes over his shoulder. That _does_ surprise him, because Cam wouldn't have thought Jackson would be the type to go for post-coital snuggling, and this is about as close to a snuggle as he can imagine in the same sentence as Jackson. "Thank you," Jackson says, full of grave dignity. 

Cam laughs, not because it's funny, but because he doesn't really know what else to do. "Yeah, anytime," he says, because he has _no fucking idea_ what just happened, but the thought of doing it again makes his dick twitch.

Jackson laughs too: it's nothing more than a soft chuff of air, but it's one of the only honest sounds Cam's ever heard from him. "I'm still pissed at you for that mission, you know," he says, but it almost sounds affectionate, like Cam's passed some mysterious threshhold of initiation and been inducted into the mysteries of Jackson's inner circle. Hell, maybe he has. Maybe this is what you have to do to really be a part of SG-1.

And that's going to make him crack up if he keeps thinking about it, and this is so not the time, so instead, he just says, "I'll do better next time."

"You'll try," Jackson says. He lifts his hand from Cam's shoulder, bumps the knuckles against Cam's cheek, and then links his hands together and stretches, long and graceful. "Do me a favor and check my weapon back into the armory for me before you leave for the night?"

It's the closest thing to a dismissal Cam knows he's going to get. "Sure," he says, and then he gets up and puts on his clothes. Jackson doesn't say anything as Cam lets himself out. He walks up to the firing range to retrieve their weapons, makes small talk with the airman on duty at the armory, signs out at security and tries to find where he parked his fucking car this morning. The entire time, the cut in his lip throbs, in perfect time with his pulse.


End file.
